Imagine Liam Neeson, serious as ever, advocating for a critical cause. This past July, he did just that, but his mission wasn’t global peace; it was the survival of cinematic comedy. In a poignant, almost desperate public service announcement, he showcased clips from beloved classics like “Norbit,” “Tommy Boy,” and “Nacho Libre,” lamenting the comedies that never see the light of day, remain unappreciated, or are simply forgotten. His plea was earnest: “Buy a ticket, right now — so our children, and hopefully their children too, can one day enjoy watching a comedy in a theater.”
This humorous call to action was a promotional piece for Neeson’s own upcoming film, a remake of the classic absurd cop spoof, “The Naked Gun.” Back in 1988, when the original hit screens, mainstream studios regularly produced comedies, and audiences flocked to see them. In fact, eight out of the year’s top ten highest-grossing films were comedies, including blockbusters like “Coming to America” and “Big.” Fast forward to 2018, and the landscape had drastically changed. Out of the top 30 films, perhaps only nine could be loosely categorized as comedies, and nearly all of these were superhero movies, animated features, sequels, or a combination of all three.
Comedy had largely migrated to the internet and streaming platforms. Big-name box-office stars like Adam Sandler inked massive deals with Netflix. Popular comedians started producing their own specials, often sacrificing wider audiences for greater creative freedom. Even romantic comedies devolved into the “Hallmark model” — churned out regularly with TV actors and influencers, exhibiting all the visual flair of a shampoo commercial.
This shift fundamentally altered the communal experience of watching a comedy. What was once a collective event, with audiences roaring together, became a more solitary, passive activity. Now, comedies often play in the background as viewers scroll through their phones. This transformation is reflected in the films themselves: their language increasingly resembles a sitcom, featuring easily digestible frames and verbal gags that don’t demand full attention. They’ve become simpler, lighter, and ultimately, more disposable.
Neeson’s comedic appeal in “The Naked Gun” promo highlighted this stark reality. His urgent request, framed as a public service announcement, humorously underscored a grim truth: in 2025, purchasing a ticket for a pure comedy felt almost like a charitable contribution, akin to supporting UNICEF or volunteering at the A.S.P.C.A.
Inspired by Neeson’s rallying cry, this year I made it a point to see numerous comedies in theaters. My cinematic journey took me from bustling opening-night crowds in New York to quiet suburban multiplexes, and even to half-empty screenings months into a film’s run. In each experience, observing the reactions of others and hearing their laughter, I was struck by how profoundly different it felt compared to watching at home.
Even the hazy outline of Tim Robinson’s face cracked the audience wide open.
Consider “The Naked Gun” remake. The original famously parodied cop shows and film noirs with deadpan sight gags. This modern interpretation draws from new inspirations, boasting a Tony Scott-esque visual style, yet it retains its predecessor’s affection for visual humor. One memorable fight scene is scored by a literal “Take a number” sign, while “cold cases” are humorously retrieved from a walk-in freezer. Some of these gags are front and center, but many are subtly embedded in the background — precisely the kind of jokes easily missed if your attention is divided.
Each time I watched the film, I observed the same delightful dynamic: some audience members would spot a hidden joke first, their laughter prompting others to scan the screen for what they’d missed. We were, wonderfully, being asked to pay attention to the film and, in turn, to each other. While one audience might erupt at a crude joke about a woman’s anatomy, another might find a surreal mid-film montage particularly hilarious. Regardless of the specifics, each comedic moment was amplified by dozens of people gasping and wheezing with shared amusement.
Lawrence Lamont’s “One of Them Days” harkens back to a looser, “hangout” style of cinema. It centers on two Los Angeles friends, played by SZA and Keke Palmer, as they attempt to recover lost rent money. This narrative, however, primarily serves as a vehicle to gather a stellar ensemble of performers—Katt Williams, Lil Rel Howery, Aziza Scott, and Janelle James, among others—and allow them to improvise freely, showcasing a wide spectrum of comedic styles. In the theater I attended, different scenes resonated with different individuals, creating a remarkable effect: various sections of the audience would intermittently burst into laughter for their preferred jokes. Gags I might have overlooked if watching alone suddenly gained potency, proving they were making somebody laugh.
These films weren’t alone in their nostalgia for an era when comedies dominated the multiplex. “Freakier Friday,” a sequel to the 2003 Jamie Lee Curtis and Lindsay Lohan body-swap hit, is set in the present but constantly references its original era. Its four-way consciousness-switching plot sees two teenage girls inhabit adult bodies, yet it often sidelines its talented young cast, keeping Curtis and Lohan at the forefront of a story supposedly about generational acceptance and new experiences. Its incessant mid-2000s callbacks felt like pandering to millennials bringing their own children to the cinema; instead of unified laughter, I mostly heard scattered chuckles of recognition.
The true standout among the comedies I experienced in theaters this year was “Friendship.” It’s essentially a comedic take on erotic thrillers like “Single White Female.” Craig (Tim Robinson), a consultant for tech companies specializing in “habit-forming” apps, becomes obsessed with his new neighbor, Austin (Paul Rudd), a local weatherman. Austin introduces Craig to a vibrant, spontaneous world of punk rock and urban exploration. But when Austin abruptly pulls away, Craig spirals out of control. He breaks into Austin’s house, accidentally loses his wife in a sewer, and embarks on a psychedelic journey. These escalating antics ultimately expose the hollowness of Craig’s life.
On paper, this tale of suburban melancholy doesn’t scream “comedy.” The film is meticulously shot with soft lighting, ominous slow zooms, and a dramatic score. I can easily imagine watching it alone at home and struggling to know when to laugh; friends who saw it in empty theaters reported similar confusion. Yet, “Friendship” serves as astonishing proof that the right environment and audience can transform peculiar humor into something profoundly, gut-bustingly funny. While it also features conventional jokes familiar to fans of Robinson’s Netflix series, “I Think You Should Leave,” it was the shared experience in the theater that truly made it shine. Even the faint outline of Robinson’s face, subtly appearing in the background during a seemingly serious moment, sent the audience into hysterics. This type of unsettling, off-kilter humor benefits immensely from being viewed among others, as the tension beautifully resolves when the crowd collectively gives in and erupts in laughter.
The current wisdom in the movie industry dictates that audiences will only venture to theaters for mega-budget spectacles. These blockbusters *happen* to an audience, overwhelming them with a scale and bombast their living rooms cannot replicate. My experiences this year suggest comedies work differently: in a theater, it’s the audience that *makes* the comedy happen. Some of my most cherished movie memories involve raucous laughter with friends, followed by reliving those moments as we re-enacted the scenes that first made us cackle. We weren’t merely *receiving* this laughter; we were actively generating it among ourselves.
This is precisely the sentiment Neeson was tapping into. It truly is worth embracing his invitation to experience a comedy in a movie theater. You might laugh, you might yawn, you might even be tempted to glance at your phone – but at the very least, you won’t be navigating the experience alone.
Robert Rubsam writes fiction and nonfiction.